The Primrose Pursuit (6 page)

‘You see, Maurice,’ I told him, ‘she said I was sweet. Now that’s something, isn’t it!’

‘Dilooded,’ the cat replied, ‘just like our master was. It’s amazing how blinkered human beings can be.’

Maurice has a thing about ‘dilooshun’ and says the word a lot: he likes it. I think it means you don’t know what you are talking about. Well you can’t say that about Bouncer because I
know
, you see. And
I
know that although P.O. is the sister of F.O. she is
not
dilooded. She is like me: got a sixth sense. So if she thinks I’m
SWEET
you bet she’s right – and if she thinks Top-Ho is
BAD
then most likely he is!

Mind you, I thought that Charles person we saw this evening was
NOT
bad, especially as he’s got that really good whiff about him. It reminds me of a Jack Russell I used to know … Cor! He was a good mouser if ever there was one. Put old Maurice in the shade all right. Anyway, I made sure I was on my best behaviour as I quite liked that Charles – a bit like F.O. really (though the vicar was dafter, of course).
And I also like a good trouser leg. Ladies’ stockings aren’t nearly as good: sort of thin and cold and they don’t pick up spoor in the same way … Hmm I wonder whose spoor that was? I’ll have to do a bit more sniffing around and find out. Just like P.O. with that Topping person: we’ve both got to keep our muzzles to the ground. As a matter of fact, the Prim has got quite a long muzzle but I bet I get there first.

Maurice says he did not
dis
like that Charles person … So crikey that’s a turn up for the bones. If the cat didn’t dislike the visitor then he must be all right! Perhaps we’ll see more of him. I hope so because I’d like to discover more about that nice niffy trouser leg, it had a really matey smell.

Later

Do you know what? There
is
a cairn in the neighbourhood and it’s called Duster. Maurice has been quite useful and made some enquiries of that Persian friend of his, the cat with a face like a grey mop – Eleanor I think her name is. Anyway, Mop Face says that Duster belongs to a tall man who lives in a big house just outside the town. Now being what you might call a sharp sort of dog I’ve put one and one together and made
TWO
. (Maurice says I’m getting jolly good at my numbers these days.) So number one is that the man here last night was tall; and the next number one is that his trouser leg smelt of
cairn
. So putting those together you get two: which means that the tall man owns a cairn; and I bet you the tall man is Charles and his dog is the Duster that the Persian was talking about … See? No fleas on this one’s coat and that’s for sure. I’ll go and tell the cat what I think.

His nibs was kipping under the dining-room table. (It’s where he goes when he thinks he won’t be seen; but I could see him all right because he’d forgotten to fold that white paw under his chest so it stuck out like a sore whatsit.) I was going to wake him up but thought better of it; there’s still a scratch on my nose from the last time. Besides, I want to do a bit more thinking about that Top-Ho chap. There’s a funny smell there you know, and smells just happen to be Bouncer’s
for-tea
, as Maurice would say. But before I start thinking I’ll just trot off to take a dekko at those daft chinless wonders in their hutch. If they’re having a kip like the cat I’ll soon wake ’em up … Wah-ho, Bunnnies! Here I come!

I had spent a long day at the easel, ‘rusticating’ the church tower and trying to give the features of the cropping sheep a semblance of expression. Why go against nature one might ask? Because that is what the punters want. They have a sentimental view of the countryside, and ancient churches and personalised sheep are what sell my pictures.
You mean you attended the Courtauld simply to churn out bogus rural idylls for the urban and undiscerning?
an inner voice asks. ‘Certainly,’ I reply, ‘since that is precisely what delivers maximum dosh for minimum effort.’ It also happens to keep me in gin, pays for this comfortable house and allows me periodically to indulge the occasional aesthetic urge in trips to foreign meccas – Paris, Vienna, Venice. Stuck in a garret grappling with serious stuff might enhance one’s artistic integrity but hardly one’s bank balance. I tried to explain this to Francis on a number of occasions but he never quite grasped it … unlike Ingaza who grasps it wholeheartedly. That said, commercial empathy is no
guarantee of close amity, and our relationship rests on a mutual wariness – a condition also of mutual approval.

Anyway, having at last supplied the sheep with a trace of animation and contrived a gothic aura for the church, I was about to call it a day and lose myself in the soothing scandals of the
Daily Telegraph
, when I was rung up by Melinda Balfour.

‘That wretched girl has ratted,’ she cried.

‘Which of the many?’ I enquired.

‘Blanche, of course. Swanned off to London at the last moment and left me in the lurch without a partner, and I’ve got everything arranged!’ she wailed. ‘You couldn’t
possibly
substitute, could you? I mean I know it’s fearfully short notice but I do have the most marvellous supper laid on. You wouldn’t starve.’

Melinda’s bridge suppers are renowned, and participating invariably means a convivial evening, especially if her husband is otherwise engaged; that awful pipe and grating laugh – features surely the cause of many a missed trick. Thus despite the rigours of the day I said I would be delighted to fill the gap but would she mind if I brought Bouncer as he and Maurice had had a little spat earlier on and it was best to leave the cat to its own devices for a while. ‘Of course, of course, anything you like,’ she trilled. Such was her relief that doubtless she would have welcomed a pack of staghounds had I requested. Thus swapping my painting pinny for a vampish black sheath dress – a mite tight I fear – and dousing myself in some indiscreet scent, I seized the dog and sallied forth to slay them at the bridge tables.

Negotiating the tortuous lanes leading up to Firle Beacon, I contemplated the evening ahead. Undoubtedly
the food would be good, some of the guests amusing, the stakes interestingly high – and providing Freddie Balfour was out being worthy at a Rotary dinner, my own performance might proceed with customary luck. The real question mark was the dog: would it behave itself? I glanced sideways at the passenger seat. ‘You have got to be very good, Bouncer,’ I warned him, ‘one false move and I’ll never take you anywhere again.’ The words were met with silence followed by a mild burp.

As things turned out, the dog was obligingly well behaved – sickeningly so in fact. He made sheep’s eyes at all and sundry, rolled gaily on his back, and at the advent of the cocktail sausages even performed some creditable begging tricks. Consequently he was stuffed with food and cooed over unceasingly. Gross.

The evening developed well. As hoped, Freddie Balfour was mercifully absent, the cards lively and my own efforts sound. We left just after midnight, dog sated and owner pleased … Yes, I mused, Melinda Balfour had been lucky to have me as a partner and she would notice the difference when Blanche Swithin returned next week (‘Oh what a falling-off there’ll be!’ – Shakespeare, more or less, I think). I patted my handbag containing the proceeds and addressed my companion. ‘Well, Bouncer, that’ll get me a new bottle of Chanel and you a fresh bone – perhaps even a toy rabbit if you are very good.’ He remained silent, being engrossed in the moving shapes of the gorse bushes as we trundled along the rutted track to the road that winds across the downs and into the valley.

As I drove still amused by my lucrative bridge skill – a legacy from Pa – I was put in mind of Hubert Topping
suavely bankrupting the martini set at Christoff’s … Yes, one could just see him in the role of croupier: dapper in dinner jacket, raking the counters while purring words of cheer and consolation to gullible punters. And afterwards? Doubtless slipping with cronies into some curtained recess to split and toast the evening’s spoils. And in the dawn light did he perhaps retire with a cup of delicate Lapsang and a volume of Horace … or with volumes of vodka and a sultry showgirl? I contemplated the possibilities. But not for long as my reverie was halted by the dog: it wanted to get out.

‘Oh really, Bouncer,’ I protested, ‘can’t you wait? Lie down and be a good boy.’ He didn’t lie down but squirmed in the seat emitting reproachful grunts. Reluctantly I stopped the car and shoved him out. The night was clear with bright stars and a waxing moon, and I was persuaded to take the air with a cigarette and imbibe the silence. Far off, the lights of Lewes twinkled. But up on the ridge, apart from the dog shuffling in the gorse, all was still and tranquil.

I drew on my cigarette, and glancing to the right realised I had parked by the old dew pond, a favourite spot with children and local ramblers. Indeed as children ourselves – and although denizens of the eastern Weald – we had come up periodically to sail toy boats and splash in its shallows. On one occasion Francis (typically) had fallen in, and there was an awful hullaballoo because he had refused to come out. I smiled at the memory, savouring my cigarette and gazing at the gleaming waters and the abandoned years … And then I stopped gazing and instead stared hard. There was something floating there, long and solid; a distinct blot on the smooth surface. A discarded bundle of rubbish? A couple of logs or— ‘Christ almighty!’ I yelped,
and leapt back in appalled disbelief … Legs, not logs. It was a body: a body on its front, half in and half out of the water; but worse than that, a body minus something. Its head.

For a few dazed seconds I convinced myself the thing was a battered shop mannequin discarded by a disgruntled floor walker; or perhaps the girl guides had been up there with a stuffed dummy practising their first aid and in an access of experimental zeal had been too free with the scissors. When one’s own body is struck with horror it is remarkable how active the brain becomes in seeking palliatives. But the images of invention dissolve and there remains the raw reality. Thus I stood transfixed in the clawing silence, numbed by that reality, my hands stiff and feet riveted to the turf.

Then suddenly from the depths of lost years I heard the shrill voice of my brother: ‘Let’s play cops and robbers! I’ll lie down and pretend to be dead and
you’ve
got to come and examine my corpse with the magnifying glass. Hurry up, Prim, do!’

Thus mechanically but minus magnifying glass, I dutifully edged towards the pond and craned forward to get a closer look; and despite the dark and revulsion registered certain features. The form was fairly slight and short but seemed to be male and was clad in what looked like a brown-checked sports jacket with patches on the elbows; a pallid hand flung sideways from the water displayed a signet ring on the little finger … Then, scrutiny over and now thoroughly yanked back to the present, I was about to dash to the car when two further details confronted me. One was the rosebud floating primly on the lucent waters; and the other was an additional
accoutrement – the severed head. It lay a few feet from the pond’s edge, propped against a piece of flint, battered and balding … This time I closed my eyes and refrained from inspection.

I have to say that the whole experience was exceedingly monstrous and disgusting, and I felt far from well. The dog, of course, was in its element, prancing around in slavering delight emitting the most sordid noises and with tail wagging non-stop. Typical. I was neither prancing nor slavering (being sick in a gorse bush actually). And on reflection I can definitely say that it was not something my brother would have approved, his own dispatch of Mrs Fotherington having been the essence of discretion. I mean, this was so
messy
!

It was perishing cold up on those downs and if Bouncer thought I was going to hang about just to indulge his morbid appetite he had another think coming. So I clipped the lead onto his collar, hauled him back to the car and took off pretty damn quick. By the time we gained the main road the dog had ceased its clamour and sat meekly on the front seat presumably lost in its own thoughts. As I was in mine. Who was it for the good Lord’s sake? Could it
really
be him?

It was not pleasant reviewing the evidence, particularly of one so truncated; but such things tend to stick in the mind and it required no effort to recall the details. They were there already assaulting my eyes, rearing and jostling in the driving mirror: brown-checked jacket, short, smallish frame, receding hair (I winced), signet ring on right hand, and above all the confounded rose. There was little doubt: the corpse must surely be that of the recently
appointed Latin master to Erasmus House, the county’s most favoured prep school. Singular to say the least …

What a relief to get back to the outskirts of Lewes and see the beckoning lights of my house. I felt better immediately, and once inside mixed a more than liberal pick-me-up. Despite the warmth of the drawing room I was chilled to the bone – shock, I suppose. So I put on all three bars of the electric fire and stood in front of it, throwing down the drink and seeing that awful head. Fortunately by the third glass the head started to diminish, but my attention was caught by Bouncer and the cat. They seemed to be behaving rather oddly: standing facing each other with muzzles almost touching and just staring. The dog’s ears were cocked, the cat’s flattened and each was slowly waving its tail. They must have sensed that I was watching for in the next moment, amid yowls and growls, there was a flurried exodus to the kitchen and I heard no more … I don’t really understand animals but Mrs Fobbs from the sweetshop swears blind that they use a form of private speech. It’s amazing what people will believe.

Anyway, to return to the head – and the torso for that matter: clearly Topping had not engineered his own decapitation, so someone else must have had a hand.
Not
, I thought, the headmaster because despite what Emily had said regarding their dispute over the timetable clashes, Winchbrooke is one who will do anything for a quiet life, or so Emily assures me, and going so far as to murder one of his own staff would surely defeat the object. Such urges can backfire – as my poor brother once found to his cost. No, surely someone else was the culprit.

I reflected upon the rose. For a bloom that had been
in the pond for some time you would expect bedraggled petals or none at all. But from what I recalled the thing had looked perkily pristine, which rather suggested that Topping’s committal to water had taken place shortly before my arrival. Whether the gory
coup de grâce
had been struck in situ or at an earlier stage, or indeed whether it had been delivered pre- or post-mortem, were not aspects I cared to pursue: the fact that the committal, in whatever mode, was likely to have occurred just minutes prior to my being there was more than enough. Just think, it could have been happening at the very time I was scooping that fourth trick from under Daisy Wingate’s nose!

I downed further fortification and after which began to feel distinctly queasy – though whether the effects of squeamishness or overindulgence I couldn’t be sure. Possibly the brandy itself: our wine merchant’s stock is notoriously poor. (Must remember to order from Berry Bros in future.) But nausea apart, it was now past two o’clock and time for bed. On my way up I looked in on the kitchen where to my surprise I saw both animals curled up in Bouncer’s basket. I had never seen that before and Francis used to tell me they couldn’t abide each other’s sleeping quarters. Strange … but then so was Topping and his lost head. I had always said he spelt trouble. Bloody man!

As I undressed, it crossed my mind I should apprise the police of my startling find; a quick call to the station should have them up and running all right. I pictured Sergeant Wilding at the duty desk bellowing his cohorts into action with truncheons primed and walkie-talkies jabbering – and somehow the scene plunged me into even greater weariness. I paused irresolute, envisaging the pandemonium; and with stocking in one hand and pyjama top in the other,
weighed the pros and cons. Police or sleep? The latter was the more enticing. And thus with dawn only four hours hence I decided to shelve the matter. After all, it was not as if the body had been found in a river and thus liable to float away: one cannot proceed far in a dew pond. And even in these urban times, here in Sussex there still lurks a random shepherd or two, and doubtless such a one would make the same discovery. A hue and cry would ensue while I could remain at a safe distance, i.e. in bed, and thus be spared the tedium of a nocturnal visit from the investigating authorities.

Yes, I told myself, when in doubt wait and see – one of Pa’s more practical dicta. Luckily the condition of doubtfulness rarely afflicts me, unlike it did Francis, but when such moments do befall, staying one’s hand is no bad thing.

The hand, however, was not stayed for long as curiosity got the better of me. Thus with the first note of the blackbird I flung back the bedclothes wildly agog to learn more of Topping’s misadventure and the cause of such malice – for malice there had most certainly been. Naturally, the man must have done something pretty dire to inflame such an attack. My earlier suspicions were entirely justified, spot on surely; though I have to say that I had not foreseen him as a
victim
, rather the reverse. Nevertheless it just went to show that he had been far from kosher, however good his Latin. I mean if he had been above board he wouldn’t have got murdered, would he? (Admittedly no one could have accused Mrs Fotherington of not being above board, but then she had been a special case … as was her assailant.)